


A Two-Shot x 2

by groaar



Series: Coloured Feelings [2]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Arguing, Emotional Baggage, Emotionally Repressed, Facing the past, Gen, Possible Impalement, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Rivalry, Twins, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2019-11-23 12:36:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18151967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/groaar/pseuds/groaar
Summary: In the aftermath of it all, wouldn't it be so much easier to just walk away from it all? Ignore whatever consequences your actions have brought on, and simply forget about the world and all that was. Were it only that easy.What do you do when root of your problems is standing right before you, demanding answers you long since forgot?Can something that's been so utterly trashed really be rebuilt?Maybe, but you're just not certain whether you want to give it an actual try.  After all, you know that running is so much easier.Contains DMC5 spoilers!!





	1. Blue Pride...

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place post dmc5, so again, spoiler alert!
> 
> The brothers are fighting their endless battle of supremacy in the underworld, both parties chacing sweet victory.  
> But how long can one keep fighting? How long is it possible to run from the past?
> 
> The first chapter is told from Vergil's POW. I hope you will enjoy!
> 
> Featuring William Blake's "A Poison Tree".

And so, once again, I find myself back in the Underworld, with Dante of all people. I had prepared for many an outcome, but I must say even I failed to predict this particular one. Then again, unpredictability seems to be somewhat of a family trait, Dante certainly being no exception, so perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised.

 

I wonder how long we’ve been down here. In between the endless repetition of duels and the occasional spout with a handful of demons, time has grown hard to measure. Any guess I could muster would be a hazy assumption at its best. Not that it matters. We have time, and we have a score to settle. Yet, as the number of our fights grows so does grow the weariness I see in my brother’s eyes. I sense him growing tired, not physically but in mind. Dante has never been fond of repetition, and we, it would seem, are stuck in an endless loop.

 

There is no definite winner so far, not even a winning streak. Loath that I am to admit it, even I have started to cherish those rare moments when a horde of senseless demons stumble upon our spot. It seems to me, though, as if Dante lives for these respites from monotonousness. He is no longer putting in an honest effort into our duels. I feel like I am fighting a mere shadow, a shell, like as if he’d lost his edge. This passion for battle, however, oddly returns when he is faced by weaker spawns of our kin. It annoys me to no end, because it makes every victory feel like it has been handed over, and the losses even worse.

 

Despite all this it would seem I cannot stop fighting. The desire to surpass my brother is too overbearing, my pride too strong to admit to anything even resembling defeat. This alone could keep me going till I draw my last breath. Dante, on the other hand, is altogether different. In all honesty I am terrified of the moment he refuses to raise his blade to meet mine, and I fear we are growing ever closer to that inevitability. Every blow, block and retaliation wallows with his reluctance, seeps in it, but I wish for this fighting to never end. It is a worthwhile distraction.

 

Fighting is familiar. It is something we both know, something that has always ruled our relationship – defined it. If our endless spat for supremacy was to cease without a clear outcome, then what is to happen? I do not know if I am prepared for whatever that may be, not with all that lies in our past. The internal struggle between what I desire and the knowledge of what it could cost me, what it has cost me, and the fact that I still yarn for it despite possessing this knowledge; I resent it.

 

With age comes wisdom, they say, but age has brought me naught but resentment. I am as bitter and prideful as I ever was, more so now, and I know of no other manner to be. How befitting is it not then that it is this very pride that has held me back, still holds me back. I can neither accept defeat nor assistance for this would prove my weakness, and weakness is what I have run from as long as I can recall. I have trapped myself so expertly in my own believes that I see no other option but to press on further along the path I’ve chosen. Were someone to open a door for me and offer an escape route, I might ignore it. Accepting any help, even when it is freely given, is still admitting to a wrong, and being wrong is no different from being weak, and I am not weak.

 

So I must keep fighting. Keep on fighting, clashing with relentless force, unstoppable in my pursuit of victory. I’ll fight until Dante does not rise again. I’ll fight till it is all finally over. Except; I won’t. A fight requires two parties, and now it seems my brother has finally had enough. Yamato slices through his flesh with little effort, sprinkling the dead ground we stand upon with vivaciously red droplets. I glare at him, a look he returns with feigned innocence and a shrug.

 

“I’m bored!”

 

The insolence! I would smite him where he stands would he even give me the slightest hint of resistance, but no, he has me trapped. He knows, I am certain, that my pride will not allow me to strike at a defenceless foe. It is ever so infuriating, but I’ll stay true to my code: this I could never count as a victory. I, too, retreat.

 

Silence stretches on between us. Moments pass, or perhaps time has come to a stop? I would not know. Down here all seems static, never-changing, doomed. I find myself jittery, anxious to move. These past few months have left me restless. What has come to pass has stirred the sea that is my mind, and in doing so has rendered my thoughts shattered. I do not want to linger upon them, cannot grasp them even when I try.  No matter this torment I will not be the one to break the silence, and I need not be – I am the patient one, after all.

 

“Argh, this damned quiet is even worse than the infernal fighting!”

 

Never did I think that Dante’s grating voice could bring me solace, yet as his words echo through this endless void they lure me out from the snares of my internal storm. A favour should be with a favour met. Before I can rethink, the words of William Blake’s ‘A Poison Tree’ spill past my lips with the same ease that snow in deserts melt.

 

_I was angry with my friend:_  
_I told my wrath, my wrath did end._  
_I was angry with my foe:_  
_I told it not, my wrath did grow._  
  
_And I watered it in fears,_  
_Night and morning with my tears;_  
_And I sunned it with smiles,_  
_And with soft deceitful wiles._  
  
_And it grew both day and night,_  
_Till it bore an apple bright._  
_And my foe beheld it shine._  
_And he knew that it was mine,_  
  
_And into my garden stole_  
_When the night had veiled the pole;_  
_In the morning glad I see_  
_My foe outstretched beneath the tree._


	2. Red Anger...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so the story continues from Dante's POV.

Well, poetry was certainly not the form of entertainment I had in mind when complaining about our current situation. Frankly, poetry, at its core, is just as bad as deafening silence. If I ever had a tolerance for such nonsense, V more than made sure of that poetry has worn out its welcome. I suppose he’s making an effort though, my dear brother, so I guess I’ll have to entertain his, albeit fumbling, attempts at conversation.

 

“I never quite pinned you as a poetry kind of guy, brother.”

 

I’m almost taken back at the sound of my own voice. It’s so spiteful, mocking, more so than I intended at least. If Vergil notices, he doesn’t seem to pay it any mind. Then again, does he ever? The majority of what I tell him just probably bounces off some invisible wall he built with his oh so almighty demonic powers. It still makes me a little hopeful though, the poetry.

 

“But, it’s nice to see that there’s still some V in you.”

 

Oh my. That he did not like. Yeah, that thin, downturned line on his face is definitely not approving, and that frown. Wow, well, I didn’t know he could make his face even frownier. I mean, his resting face is practically a frown… Well, shit! This is what happens when I try to have a conversation. I’m just not cut out for this talking-serious-things-thing. Well, the harm’s already done and I’d say I can’t make it any worse… So, just keep the comments flowing, I guess.

 

“So, who’s the foe?” I manage, and I swear Vergil’s frown just keeps evolving. He looks a bit like he’d bitten into stale, week-old pizza. I mean, yeah, maybe my question came out a bit half-arsed, but hey, no one can accuse me of not pulling my own weight in this conversation…monologue.

 

“Hey,” I lift my hands up in defence, “I’m trying here, can’t help it that your poetry is so cryptic ‘n all.”

 

“It is poetry,” he snaps, sounding all exasperated, “it’s not meant to be taken literally!” Which is a fact I am well aware of; I’m not stupid, and I tell him as much.

 

“So it’s about you then?” I press, and I think I’ve never seen my brother look so nonplussed.

 

“About me?”

 

“Yeah, I mean, come one,” I laugh. “You say it’s not literal, but with Urizen eating that apple made of human sacrificial blood or whatever, and V swooping in, driving his cane through that big, yellow, ugly chest-eye while Urizen was lying beneath the tree all defeated… It kinda sounds like you’re retelling what happened.” I actually have no idea what I’m talking about, I’m blabbering. I’ve always had a knack for that, so why stop now?

 

“It’s all a bit messed up, sure, and I can’t really make sense of it, but with V being you, and Urizen also being you, then is this fucking poem not just a reflection of yourself and you self-image, or some shit like that? That’s how it comes off!” Booyah, nailed it! I think. It seems pretty logical to me. However, that look of disapproval on Vergil’s face tells me he doesn’t quite agree.

 

“How very interpretative of you, brother,” he mutters, but that’s really all he has to offer. There’s really no bite to him. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost say he looks just a tad uncomfortable. Man, I do hope that’s the case, ‘cause boy does he deserve it. I relish in his discomfort, want to push him further, but I manage to reel myself in. I need to make things better, not worse.

 

“Why do you always have to be so damn difficult, Vergil?” I groan. “Hell, I’d say we go back to fighting, but I know you wouldn’t stop before one us lay dead, and despite it all, no matter how much I love kicking your ass, brother, killing you…I’ve had enough of that.” I pause to reconsider, and then add that him pulling off a new power-crazed scheme involving killing sprees of any kind would naturally be an exception to my newfound conviction.

 

I get no response. He clenches his fist, only to unclench it in order to clench it again. Vergil is the epitome of a rigid, stoic and stuck-up asshole. How are we even related?

 

“Come on, at least try to make a goddamned effort, Vergil!”

 

He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He’s Vergil, so what did I expect? Reconciliation? Yeah, in my dreams, maybe. It’s fine though, just fine. I don’t need him, didn’t back then, don’t need him now. I just don’t feel like killing him again, that’s all. I don’t want to repeat that…trauma.

 

All the shit he’s put me through, and he can’t even own up to his mistakes. I’m tired. Sick, of dealing with all of this: all of his bullshit. Power, weakness, demons, humanity; I swear, he’s a worse drama queen than Patty. I think I’m reaching my limits. If he doesn’t wanna talk, then cool, we won’t. I’m done catering to his needs. He may be my brother, but I barely know him. Never knew him. I’ve made an effort, but I just don’t have the energy to care enough anymore.

 

“At least V had the decency to be remorseful, but you clearly must have lost that side when remerging into yourself” I hiss, glaring at him, daring him to respond. Funny enough, mentioning V does seem to do the trick.

 

“Neither V or Urizen were me. Fragments of me yes, but wholly different. Separate. They were their own entities, and like two parts of a puzzle they form a new picture when slotted together. There is no use in comparing me to either!” he spits back at me, seemingly offended that I have had the gall to compare him to himself. Yeah, Vergil’s logic knows no boundaries. I’d damn him all the way to hell, if we weren’t here already. At least now I know what buttons to push to get a reaction. So easy.

 

“Yeah well, maybe you should have stayed separate then. While V was an annoying, stubborn bastard he was a hell a lot more likable than you,” I smirk, “and Urizen so freakin’ easy to hate” I add, flashing him my best smile.

 

“I am so sorry to disappoint you, brother.”

 

Oh yeah. Like hell he is.

 

“Who even does that? Separates themselves?”

 

“I did.” He deadpans, and I can’t even believe he’s saying that. I must be making a face, because his rearranges itself into a satisfied smirk.

 

“Do you always have to be so goddamn dramatic?” I grumble, “You do dumb shit and then I have to clean up after you!”

 

He snorts at that, and cocks an eyebrow at me. His hand moves to rest on Yamato and he urges me to do the same. To put it in his words: I’d only have to pick up my sword and be rid of him. As if it would be that simple. Anyway, I’ve already told him. I’m done with killing him. I can’t do that again. I know he doesn’t care, and maybe he’s capable, but I don’t have it in me anymore.

 

“Jeez, won’t you just give it a rest!” I snap, feeling exasperation pressing at my skull, begging to be let out, begging to take control. But I have to try, because he won’t.

 

“If winning is that important, fine you win. Great! You are the most powerful. Praised be Vergil! Can we stop now?” Please, I want to add, but I don’t.

 

“Power, brother, is necessary!” he snarls, as if my words somehow, again, have managed to offend him. Maybe they did. Good! He sure deserves it. Bastard. But I just don’t get him; not his single-minded, obsessive and misguided dedication to the search of power. It’s never done him any good, and he must know that. He can’t be that blind. I hope.

 

“For what?” I growl, “and don’t you dare say protection! We both know that ain’t true! If you go down that road again you’ll have nothing left to protect.”

 

I feel sweat forming on my back. The rage is gnawing at my insides. My chest is heaving with anger. He knows. He waits, and baits. I search his eyes for anything, even the smallest sign of recognition. I find nothing but cold, empty hunger. I search my mind, trying to find something, anything, to make him see. What I land upon is painful, but maybe that is what it takes.

 

“You don’t need power to protect. Just think about at mom.”

 

“Yes, and just look where that got her.”

 

“Well, she still did a way better job than you!”

 

“And she failed.”

 

I feel myself break a little at his words, because she did not fail. She Did. Not.

 

“She died trying to save us! She gave up everything for us, for you!” I roar.

 

“And she failed” he repeats, in that icy, unmoved voice of his. He’s circling me now, goading me.

 

“How dare you say that? She went out there searching for you, and she died, don’t you dare put the blame on her!”

 

“I am not,” he sneers, his lips curving up into a cold smile, “I am merely pointing out that she lacked the means and the power to fulfill her task, which in turn lead to her failure and untimely death. It is just that simple.”

 

Something snaps. The chill in his voice, the resentment and disgust, it damaged something inside me. I don’t care too much about his ideals; let him think what he wants of humans. But mother, she’s different. She was pure, and what he’s implying... He’s spitting on her memory, tarnishing it, and I can’t see past that.

 

I’m sorry Nero, but there really is no redeeming your old man. Not for me at last. I gave it try though. I really did, but I’m through. This was all a stupid idea. Vergil’s never going to change. He doesn’t want to change.

 

I’m sorry mom. I did try it your way, talking things through instead of fighting to solve our disagreements, but it seems some fights can’t be won without brute force.

 

As I reach for Sparda his eyes light up with glee. This is not what I wanted. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it!   
> Have a nice day and thanks for reading ^^

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for getting through this chapter.  
> Stay tuned for the next instalment!
> 
> If you like it please let me know :)
> 
> Also, I am so, so happy dmc5 exists!


End file.
